


The Lonely Hill

by TAFKAB



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Fisting, Emotional displacement, Heavy Angst, Implied Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield, M/M, Major Depression, Married Thorin, One-sided Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Rough Sex, The One Ring is Bad News, proxy sex, still sad though!, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9061576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: In a universe where all the company survived, Bilbo and Dwalin turn to one another for comfort after the marriage of Thorin Oakenshield.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irrealia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/gifts).



Bilbo sits under the big oak tree on top of the hill, smoking his pipe and watching the stars come out. Earendil appears first, low in the east. It makes him feel decidedly peculiar to think he knows an elf descended from the very mariner who pilots the ship bearing the silmaril that now casts its transcendent, pale glow over Middle Earth. That it isn’t just a metaphor the way he once believed.

But then Bilbo Baggins knows a lot of strange things these days. He knows a lot of uncouth people.

He can see halfway across the west farthing from here, nearly all the way to Tuckborough, and a tidy share of the east farthing too—the lights of Frogmorton are just coming up a faint glow on the horizon. He could see a puff of dust on the road as the sun descended behind the horizon, and knows it will be a party of dwarves. They will be here before middle-night, hungry and happy and full of stories to share. He knows he will have friends among them—friends so dear they may as well be brothers: Bofur, Ori, possibly Dwalin. Nori, most likely. Kili. Fili. Maybe some of the others as well.

The old Toby in his pipe tastes like it should, but it doesn’t satisfy him like it used to. The waxing orange glow as he sucks on the stem spoils his night vision. He can smell dinner roasting from the chimney-pipe to his left: pork with rosemary and fresh yeast bread to be devoured with honeyed butter, but he doesn’t savor the thought of food, either. Nor does he long for beer.

His hand goes to his waistcoat pocket and dips inside, where the warm curve of gold rides, welcoming the stroking fingertip as it checks to make sure all is well. That gives him a brief surcease from his melancholy, but only for a moment. When he pulls his fingers away, the frown settles onto his face once more.

He lowers his gaze to the row. Ham Gamgee and his wife are both in Bag End, cooking and cleaning to prepare for company; their son Hamson is with Lily Cotton, who’ll have her hands full tending another toddler along with her Tolman. Tolman and Hamson are unholy terrors, by all accounts.

Bilbo really doesn’t care.

Oh, make no mistake. He smiles, he laughs. He hands out presents even when it isn’t his birthday. He tells stories, when asked. But he doesn’t feel much of anything.

The joy went out of his life the day he departed from Erebor, and it never came back. It won’t even return when the dwarves arrive, weary and dusty from the great East road.

A single pony clops up the road, burdened by a rider. The rider isn’t man height, but is man broad through the shoulder, and tougher than an old tree root. He lifts his bald head, his broad face illuminated by the glow of golden light from Bilbo’s windows. 

Bilbo gets up, sucking judiciously at his pipe to keep the dregs lit, the dew wetting his toes as he makes his way down the stair on the side of the hill. 

“Supper’s not ready yet.” He guides Dwalin to tether his pony in the side-yard, away from the flowers and his vegetable garden. There’s plenty of grass for it to crop, and Hamfast put a trough down earlier today and filled it with well-water. “Come up on the hill with me for a pipe.”

“We’ve seventeen in our party. I directed all but the company to stay in Bywater. The rest will be on directly.” Dwalin is as gruff as ever, but he follows Bilbo without complaint, and when he brings out his pipe, Bilbo has a pouch of tobacco ready just for him, handing it over and refusing to accept it back.

“No, it’s yours. And there’s more where that came from.” 

Bilbo lights a straw from the bowl of his own pipe and hands it over. Soon Dwalin’s pipe is well alight. The dwarf inhales the smoke with pleasure.

Now that courtesy has been served, Bilbo lets his own pipe go out and taps the dottle into the grass. 

“Tell me the news of Erebor,” Bilbo says, and looks up into the sky through the oak, where the stars are tangled in a web of branches, as if they can be netted and prisoned by mortal means.

“We have the furnaces running and the mines keep them filled. Once again our coffers overflow.” As if they had known any lack of riches after the dragon fell! The only lack had been of food, which could not be procured for any price in gold, except through Thranduil, who has his white gems now and is, presumably, as content as a being of his high and haughty nature can manage. 

For Bilbo has lost his joy in elves, too, and the thought of the kingdoms he has seen brings him no pleasure. 

“The men of Dale have planted crops, and there is food for all. Children are conceived and brought forth now in Dale and in the mountain.”

Bilbo stiffens at that, tucking his pipe away without looking at Dwalin. “Children are most surely to be wished. Has the queen quickened?”

“Her majesty has.” Dwalin leaves it at that, for a mercy.

“He’ll be glad of an heir.” Bilbo touches the smooth, infinite curve of the little ring, turning it slowly around and around in his pocket like a wheel. 

“Aye.” Dwalin looks into the bowl of his pipe, his eyes gleaming. “And what of you?”

“I’ve an eye on my nephews.” Bilbo keeps the words curt, unable to modulate the sharpness of his tone. “One of them will suit.” Or Bag End can rot, for all of him, and his corpse inside it: a fitting tomb for Bilbo Baggins, that queer old bachelor, the scandal of the Shire.

“Aye,” Dwalin says again. “A nephew should suit.” 

Bilbo scoffs, refusing to curl around his anguish. “Well enough for a lowly hobbit with no title to pass on, perhaps, and nothing better to yield up to an heir than a moldy mouse-hole. Clearly not well enough for his betters!”

Silence falls, and Dwalin finishes his pipe before either speaks again. 

“How is Fili?”

“Relieved, I think. He and Kili haven’t changed a hair—Fili has a limp and Kili a scar. That’s all. They’ll never settle and be responsible now, unless they’re forced.” Dwalin’s rumble disapproves of their frivolity.

“It’s an ill wind as blows nobody any good, my gardener would say.” Bilbo shivers, his clothes increasingly damp from the settling of the dew. In a strange and rueful way, he is glad for the brothers. Someone, after all, should be happy. “Come on down into the hole before you catch a chill. “

Dwalin follows again, curiously passive in his obedience, his grizzled beard and mustache, his heavy furs, and his muddy, travel-stained boots surreal and awkward against the polished coziness of Bag End. Bilbo notices but doesn’t comment. He feels torn between two worlds, belonging in neither. Only the weight of that little circle of gold in his pocket keeps him on the ground, keeps him moving forward with purpose. Without it, he thinks, he might explode. 

He pictures it in great detail: the neat and tidy woodwork of the parlor dripping with gore and shreds of brocade. His pipe lies broken on the hearth. His hairy feet are all that’s left in the center of the tile floor, smoking. Hamfast’s mouth forms a horrified O when he discovers the remains.

Bilbo stirs himself from his macabre imagining and fetches ale for Dwalin himself.

The others come not long after, and they join Dwalin around the table, joyous. Bilbo lets the Gamgees serve the feast, then dismisses them to have their own share. He is a fair master, and they too are allowed to enjoy the fine food and drink, though they remain inside the kitchen to do it. 

Bilbo smiles through the evening, and laughs. Sometimes he even means it. These are his friends, and when he looks into their faces, he feels something like a hobbit again. Or something like a dwarf. Or something alive, anyway. Maybe it doesn’t matter what. He feels something other than the sucking hole that has become his heart.

If he laughs too long sometimes, or not enough on occasion, his friends make no notice of it except the occasional pitying glance. Some of them are changed too, after all. Ori has changed perhaps most of all. He carries an axe now instead of knitting needles, and he doesn’t falter when he talks. He looks confident and meets Bilbo’s eyes without shyness and still offers his talk with great deliberation, but without a child’s timidity. 

He talks of a great quest he hopes to undertake with others, and of Balin, who will lead in it, and of honor to be reclaimed and riches to be won. For the first time, perhaps, Bilbo can see the Durin shining in Ori. He has let all his hair grow long and his braids are thick and ornate, decorated with beads of gold.

Bilbo turns away from Ori as soon as it is not impolite. He gets himself a tankard of beer in the cellar and drinks it standing by the tap. Then he pours another to carry back to the party.

Bofur tries to draw him out as the night passes, to moderate success; he can get Bilbo to talk, but he can’t get him to joke or sing. Eventually he gives up, yawning; not long after, Bilbo escorts his guests to their beds. There are just enough for everyone, if a few of the dwarves are friendly.

Bilbo intends to give Dwalin the best guest room, but he finds himself ushering Ori and Nori into it instead. He’d thought Ori would content himself with the rug in front of the hearth, but that doesn’t feel right anymore.

Dwalin follows him down the hall, wordless and astonishingly silent. Hamfast and Bell are still tidying up the mess—not as dramatic as dwarf dish-washing, but quite efficient. Hamfast has pumped water to fill all the cauldrons and pots for baths in the morning. The bathing room is piled half full of firewood to heat it. 

Everything is in readiness; even a nice cold breakfast lies waiting in the pantry. 

Bilbo dismisses his hired help, sending them away with the roasts that are unfinished, the loaves that have not been devoured, the vegetables that will be cold by morning. He knows it is the proper thing to do when he has been served well. He smiles at them, perforce, as he hustles them out the door.

“Now don’t go disappearin’, Mr. Bilbo, on another one o’ them wild adventures,” Hamfast pleads as he lingers at the door. “There’s folk here who needs you, begging your pardon, and those as would miss you sorely if you went.”

Bilbo thinks vaguely that it should matter that he’s needed, that he should care whether he’ll be missed. 

He doesn’t.

“I have no plans to leave,” he says. Not, perhaps, the most reassuring response. But Bilbo knows he won’t. He has nowhere to go.

He didn’t plan to offer the hospitality of the master bedroom to Dwalin, either, but judging by the way the big dwarf follows him without question, his decision is, possibly, expected—and if not, it is at least welcome. 

Hamfast kindled the fire in Bilbo’s hearth perhaps an hour ago and placed a warming pan at the foot of his bed; the room is cozy and welcoming, with a new wax candle burning in a sconce on Bilbo’s dressing table. 

Dwalin begins taking off clothes. It’s a lengthy procedure. He has on layers of traveling gear, armor, shirts, pants, boots. He smells like sweaty dwarf under it all—a not-unpleasant scent Bilbo once grew very accustomed to. It’s a scent that awakens memory and makes him swallow past a lump in his throat.

Bilbo isn’t alone in this room with Dwalin, and they both know it. Another dwarf stands between them, a tall and lengthy shadow on the floor. 

Bilbo turns away from Dwalin and begins to unbutton his waistcoat. He is very careful, while folding it and tucking it away in his wardrobe, to ensure his ring doesn’t fall out of the pocket. He caresses its solid shape through the cloth as he pats the folded fabric smooth. He locks the wardrobe and turns aside, in shirtsleeves and breeches, to find Dwalin watching him, sitting on the edge of his bed, hands dangling between his knees. He wears only a breechclout. 

“You won’t need that,” Bilbo tells him, and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

Dwalin strips off the breechclout and tosses it atop the heap of his clothing. It’s consent enough.

Bilbo feels very small and inadequate as he removes his shirt, but he doesn’t hesitate. He’s thought about doing this a good deal, though he never pictured himself lying with Dwalin. He's awaited this moment for years, really. He began to wait weeks before they ever reached Erebor and all his hopes were buried and drowned under a river of gold. He hasn’t been able to stop waiting since he left.

Bilbo looks at Dwalin and thinks of Thorin. Dwalin is a feast of hard, scarred muscle covered with wiry dark hair. His cock isn’t hard yet, but it’s already the size of a hobbit’s erection—a generous one, at that. Bilbo feels child-sized compared to Dwalin’s bulk, but he knows the dwarf doesn’t see him as a child. Not after the mountain, not after the dragon and the battle.

Again, Dwalin is curiously passive, and Bilbo understands Thorin would have taken the lead in bedding him. Both of them are at a loss without Thorin's guidance.

Bilbo steps forward between Dwalin’s thighs, thinking of Thorin's ways. Thorin would have commanded Dwalin in this, as in all else.

“Undress me.”

Dwalin obeys. Thick blunt fingers find the lacings of his breeches and loosen the knot. They hook in Bilbo’s underthings and drag the layers down. Bilbo steps out of them and stands naked. He feels oddly powerful; Dwalin’s callused fingertips scratch lightly as they slowly caress the soft, bare skin of his sides and belly. He understands then that they both need Thorin, and will have to be Thorin for one another—and that unfair though it may be, Dwalin needs him to go first.

Thorin would use his strength to position Dwalin, but compared to the powerful dwarf warrior on his bed, Bilbo has only strength in using words. He will use them, then; they have always been his greatest skill. 

He can’t do anything about his size, but he’ll do what he can to create the illusion.

“I am the king’s voice,” he says, managing to keep his tone steady and confident. “When you obey me, you please him.”

Dwalin nods, swallowing hard.

“On your hands and knees, general,” Bilbo says softly, and watches the ripple of shock pass through Dwalin’s skin. 

Dwalin closes his eyes and obeys. His tongue slicks out to wet his lower lip. Bilbo watches the massive muscles bunch and slide in his shoulders and arms, in his thighs—each nearly as thick as Bilbo’s waist.

The power is heady, titillating—and feels absurdly right, insanely familiar. Bilbo doesn’t have time to stop and analyze that, though. He has a very respectable amount of naked dwarf to care for.

And that’s what he’s doing; Bilbo understands it suddenly. He is giving Dwalin the care Thorin once did, the care he presumably doesn’t give anymore and hasn’t since first reaching Erebor. 

He steps forward and begins to explore the beautiful feast of skin in front of him—Dwalin is soft but solid; he feels like stone made flesh. Perhaps that was Mahal’s intention. Bilbo’s hands tremble. If his eyes narrow to slits, blurring what he sees? Then Dwalin’s are closed, so he doesn’t mind.

Ribs like slats padded with muscle. Taut belly and crisp fur. Magnificent thighs—Bilbo lingers there, hands sliding along the fronts, along the backs, trailing over the tender crease behind the knee before daring to venture up and between. He cups warm, heavy balls in his hand. They are, perhaps, the most fragile part of the warrior who kneels submitted before him, and this gesture of trust is given freely to Bilbo, though not entirely to _him_.

He does not betray it, handling Dwalin’s stones with tender care, his small, deft fingers seeking out every nook and cranny.

Dwalin trembles very faintly under his hand, his breath growing harsh, and Bilbo understands it is eagerness. Looking at his goal and feeling quite inadequate, he reaches aside for oil and douses his fingers; a plan forms in his mind. 

He opens Dwalin with two fingers, and Dwalin takes them easily, sighing. The dwarf feels like an avalanche when he moves: inexorable and unstoppable. He pushes back, offering encouragement, and Bilbo adds another finger, and another—and then tucks his thumb up under them all and the next time Dwalin pushes back, he pushes _in_.

Dwalin groans, his body clamping tight around Bilbo’s wrist as he shifts, his knees spreading wider, his fingers clutching a little in the sheets. 

Bilbo could hurt Dwalin quite easily now—with one hand fully inside his body and the other cradling his stones, he could bring this mighty warrior to quivering misery with only the slightest of motions. It’s a giddy thrill of power, and it makes him bite his lip. He moves his hand, rotating it, spreading the oil inside Dwalin, then withdraws until the base of his palm begins to stretch Dwalin and drizzles more oil on, gradually working it in with shallow thrusts at first, then deeper ones, oiling his arm as he goes until he is inside all the way to his elbow. 

Dwalin’s breath is hoarse and labored. Bilbo smiles, then nips a little kiss against the soft place where ass and thigh meet. This was the kind of trust Dwalin offered Thorin; this was the depth of his submission. His trust is what keeps him at Thorin’s side even now. His need for someone still worthy of it is what has brought him to Bilbo’s bed.

Bilbo slowly works his fingers, testing Dwalin’s ability to accommodate him, and is not disappointed. After a few minutes, he is able to close his fist. Dwalin’s muscles clench around him, quivering hot.

“I’m no’ a suckling babe,” Dwalin growls, his accent thick. “Fuck me wi’ it.”

Bilbo draws his arm out to the wrist, then thrusts back inside, pushing the heel of his palm against Dwalin’s prostate. Dwalin grunts, shuddering; his muscles clamp down tight to fight Bilbo’s thrust-and-pull. After a few moments of it, Bilbo is drenched in sweat, but he’s moving smoothly inside Dwalin, who rocks back and forth, uttering soft, breathless curses in Khuzdul.

Bilbo oils his other hand clumsily and cups it around Dwalin’s cock, too big to enclose inside the channel of his fingers. He makes a cradle of fingers and palm and pushes close against Dwalin’s belly to give him something to rut against; Dwalin’s thick, red cock leaks clear fluid and he very nearly whines when Bilbo touches it.

They move in tandem, desperate, Dwalin’s toes curling with pleasure. Bilbo notices them as he blinks away the drops of sweat that sting his eyes. He braces himself against the headboard and struggles to hold his own against the rocking of Dwalin’s body; he’s not thrusting now; he’s just trying not to be crushed, and his own cock is so hard it hurts, because never mind that Dwalin’s doing all the work. Bilbo still has all the power to hurt, to love, to grant pleasure, and Dwalin is in the palm of his hand, surrendered—his. … _Theirs._

Dwalin gasps a word—one Bilbo hasn’t ever heard before, but he’d wager his share of the treasure it’s Thorin’s dark name. Dwalin comes, shooting long pale stripes against Bilbo’s coverlet, his body clenching so hard Bilbo gasps in pain. Dwalin collapses onto the bed slowly, like an arch with the capstone removed, struggling to fill his lungs.

When Bilbo retrieves his arm, it stings as the blood floods back into it, circulation finally restored. Bilbo gets up and cleans himself at the basin in the corner while Dwalin rests. He wipes his arm with care, drying his skin, not looking at the dwarf in his bed. He steps to the fire, pulling the pierce-work screen across its bright flames, then cupping his hand to shield the candle as he blows it out. 

He goes to Dwalin in darkness, and is drawn against the rock-hard belly, feeling Dwalin’s cock, wet and soft and yet still large enough to be alarming, at his backside.

This will be difficult, even painful, but he means to do it. 

He doesn’t feel in control anymore, not enclosed by the rock hard muscle and wiry hair and musky body scent of the dwarf—but he feels strangely safe despite the quiver of excitement fluttering in his belly. He pictures Thorin: his steel-blue eyes, his slow smile, his perfect straight nose and narrow, expressive lips. 

Dwalin rolls over on his back, seeming to sense that Bilbo would rather he didn’t talk. He pulls at Bilbo, easily moving him until he’s seated over Dwalin’s face; the dwarf’s hot, agile tongue begins to explore.

“Oh!” Bilbo exclaims in spite of himself, his cheeks flaming. Dwalin licks at his balls first, tongue curling over and around them wickedly. Then he works his way back, and again Bilbo can’t stop the little cries that escape him as Dwalin’s tongue moves closer and closer until—

Bilbo freezes, his breath locked inside his lungs as Dwalin’s tongue swirls, then curls itself to a point and pushes inside. Then breath escapes in him a low, wailing moan—he doesn’t care who hears—as Dwalin’s blunt thumbs pull his ass cheeks wide apart and Dwalin fucks him with his tongue, bold and wet and messy and not even a little squeamish. 

Dwalin knows what Thorin likes in bed; Bilbo is aware of that. _This is what he would have done for me_. Bilbo feels his whole backbone turn to water; the thought overwhelms him. 

The tongue withdraws, and a gentle kiss closes over him, then he’s lifted and moved, one big hairy arm supporting his belly, palm flat and open under his chest, and it happens again, deeper this time. A wet finger pushes in to help, curling inside him, and Bilbo keens at the unexpected stretch, the slight burn—and the flare of pleasure that ignites a coal of desperation at the base of his belly.

Dwalin’s finger sinks in to the last knuckle, and Bilbo thinks wildly of his ring—this must be how it feels when he puts it on, when he occupies it after it’s been lost and empty for so long—this must be how it comes alive, how it purrs, how it throbs with the pulse of life inside. But then he can’t think at all, because the finger moves and starts to fuck him, and he doesn’t have anything left but sensation.

Bilbo reaches out, scrambling to brace himself against something, anything, feeling his balance turn precarious as he wriggles atop the supporting arm. A soft chuckle rumbles the broad, deep chest underneath him, and for a moment it’s so very _Thorin_ he almost sobs. 

A second finger breaches him then, and he throws his head back with a wild cry, palms scrabbling at the dwarf’s hot, flat belly. He remembers himself enough to fumble for the oil, passing it back, and Dwalin uses it, then fucks him with those two fingers for a long, long time—not quite making contact with his prostate regularly enough to bring him off, teasing and tormenting him, getting him to open up and relax.

The third finger hurts like anything, but Bilbo sinks his teeth in his lip and pushes back on it, soldiering through the burn and taking it deep. Dwalin hums, soothing him—they have all night, and Dwalin seems determined to take it, if it’s needed. He moves in slow, measured increments, adding more oil, refusing to rush. 

When Bilbo’s loose, relaxed, taking those thick, callused fingers with ease, Dwalin shifts him again. He moves that cliffside of a body, poising Bilbo over his lap, and curls around Bilbo’s back, one arm under his thigh, the other wrapped around his belly. When he has Bilbo seated just below his navel, he passes forward the oil.

Bilbo reaches between his thighs and oils the thick red shaft that awaits him, jutting fiercely from its matted nest of curls. He wants this so badly he can taste it; his hands shake and every bit of him quivers with need. He oils Dwalin with a lavish hand, not giving a second thought to the state of the bedspread, and tosses the flask aside to clunk and gurgle out onto the floorboards. 

He rises to his knees, hands on Dwalin’s thighs; Dwalin steadies his shaft as Bilbo shifts and seeks, finds, and starts to settle—but Dwalin’s hands are there, stopping him, slowing him when he would thrust back and force it in.

They hang fire there, Bilbo’s body spasming in protest, the thick head not even buried in him yet. He almost weeps with despair; he needs. He wants. He doesn’t care. The long years since he first knew he was made for this weigh heavy on his shoulders; his anguish at having lost Thorin constricts his heart. It hurts more than the penetration ever could; he needs the pain to eclipse the anguish inside.

Dwalin lets him push back, and he feels his muscles give way and then clamp tight as the flared base of Dwalin’s cockhead pushes in past the constriction and is trapped inside. He throttles his shriek through clenched teeth—that isn’t coming out again, not while it’s hard. 

Large rough hands gentle him, sliding in the sweat that coats his chest and shoulders. They pet him, soothing him, plucking at his nipples and coaxing his cock to stir back to life again. His thighs quiver and his heart races; there is tenderness here—so close, so very close to what he needs. There is even love. But it is not enough.

Tears prickle his eyelids and he pushes back, giving himself a reason for them. His abused body gives way with slow reluctance, letting the thick shaft ream him open. For a moment he fears he’ll split like a ripe watermelon. For a moment he wants to; he wants to tear right open and spill out the pain that festers inside.

When his ass nestles against Dwalin’s belly and their balls press together, Bilbo takes a deep, shuddering breath and rests there, so full it’s impossible. Dwalin’s hands find his, caressing his soft palms carefully, thumbs dragging across his unscarred knuckles. 

The ride begins slowly, the faintest stirring of Dwalin’s body, lifting him the breadth of a finger. No more. Not withdrawing, not pushing deeper—not at first, just letting him grow accustomed to the friction of the shaft inside him, encouraging his body to ease.

But Bilbo is no child, no more than Dwalin—and before long he takes over, thighs tightening to make his body rise, muscles slacking to let his weight drag him back down until the heavy shaft is buried again. 

Dwalin’s breath hisses in his chest as he struggles to hold back and let Bilbo take only what he can manage, just as Thorin might have done. He keeps himself still for a long time, until Bilbo grows tired of gentleness and begins to squeeze him as he settles again, begins to let himself drop hard and fast onto the thick shaft that spears him open. Then Dwalin snaps his hips up and Bilbo shouts, wild and ragged, knowing he’s just woken everyone in the house and not caring, not caring—just wanting to feel it again, that explosion of pressure striking home.

Dwalin gives it to him, and Bilbo goes mad in his arms, slamming them together with reckless abandon, ferocious—so hard he knows he’ll barely be able to hobble in the morning, but it’s what he wants. He wants to take Dwalin so deep he’ll feel it a month from now when the dwarves have gone. He wants to yell so loudly the echoes will wake Thorin in Erebor where he is king of a thriving people. Let Bilbo's cries be heard then—let them travel in tales all the way to the Lonely Mountain from this, the Lonely Hill, the realm where Bilbo reigns supreme over an empty house and a heart full of ashes.

His climax takes him by surprise from a sea of sublime and ecstatic pain; he spills so hard a stream jets onto his own face, bitter on his lips. His body seizes tight and Dwalin gives a strangled growl and comes as well. Bilbo’s hand rests on his belly, where he savors the feel of Dwalin’s last stuttered thrusts, moving so strongly he can feel them through his body there. 

Dwalin fills him with come, the growl faltering into a long, whispering groan. Bilbo is tempted to collapse, but he does not—that big cock still spears him uncomfortably deep, and won’t come out easily, not until it softens. 

Finally Dwalin eases him to the side and Bilbo is free, cooling semen wetting his slender thighs.

Dry-eyed, Bilbo turns in Dwalin’s arms and curls against him, nestling his head under Dwalin’s chin, against the rough silk of the long beard. He twines his pale, smooth fingers between Dwalin’s thick, callused ones. Until the morning sends its unwelcome light streaming in through the curtains, he can lie to himself. He can rest here with his dwarvish lover; he can let sleep overwhelm him; he can slumber in peace against a broad, thickly furred chest and be safe in strong arms and pretend they are the ones he loves.

Bilbo lets himself drift into dreams.


End file.
